AA - Or, After Apocalypse (that wasn't)
by WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: "Call him freaking selfish, fine, but this was not worth Sammy." Dean, after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't.


**I appear to be on a Supernatural binge. And a depressing one at that.**

**Disclaimer; I do not own Supernatural, nor any of the characters, ideas, concepts, or other materials within.**

**Warnings for; blaspemy (maybe?), depressing themes sorta character death, and Dean's language.**

* * *

_We waged a war with Hell, and look, we still survive_

_But just because we live does not mean that we're alive_

_We've won the final round, but how to enjoy the win_

_When we've been broken down and we'll never know what could have been_

_Heaven help us, where do we begin?_

-Emilie Autumn, 'One Foot in Front of the Other'

* * *

**A.A. - Or, After Apocalypse (that wasn't).**

* * *

The end is numb.

The apocalypse ends in an abandoned field, with not a trace of the supernatural left behind to show for the 'final battle'. Dean is left staring dumbly at a blank patch of ground, stunned with horror, because some distant part of his mind is saying _Sammy is in _Hell, _Sammy is with _Lucifer _in the _Cage, _he'll be there forever I'll never see him he's dead gone but tortured Oh fucking Hell - _

His brother is in Hell, Bobby's body is somewhere off to the side, Castiel has fucking _exploded, _and the birds keep chirping.

He's on the ground - when did that happen? - and _God, God, they're all gone, all of them, what victory is this - _

"Dean."

And then Castiel is back, - what? - and Bobby is alive, because apparently Grace was restored with the non-exploded body, and Dean would be happy, except for the whisper

_Sammy is in Hell Sammy is in Hell Sammy is in HELL - _

that doesn't want to go away.

And Castiel disappears to Heaven - of course, Apocalypse over, his job's done - and Bobby seems content to go home and get drunk enough to forget this clusterfuck, and...

What's left? Everything, and nothing.

Dean hovers around Bobby for a while, but the older hunter is more concerned about _him, _which is enough to send Dean packing. But where to?

He starts driving. That's his go-to when emotions want to be heard, so he drives, and drives, and drives, without any sort of end in mind.

He stops at a park, randomly, and gets out to walk, because cars are great but not really enough to stop the nervous, adrenaline-spurred jittering in his bones. So he walks, and walks faster, and he _looks._

There are kids playing on the swing-set, kids playing tag, kids mock-fighting as parents roll their eyes or scold or chat or gossip. Birds flutter around trees and squirrels flee from grubby, eager child-hands, and a pair of teens on skateboards fly past, narrowly missing an old man who huffs something annoyed and waves vaguely in their direction with a paper.

It's normal and mundane and perfect, and he saved it, he _made _this, and -

_Sammy is in Hell._

He's crying, and doesn't quite realize it until everything is too blurry for him to make out the sun. He stumbles around until he hits a tree, and he hides his face, because that's what Winchesters do

_last Winchester_

and he doesn't need any old ladies getting concerned about him.

_Am I alright, lady? Oh, sure, the devil just dragged my brother down in the Pit with him, so they'll have a nice little one-on-one for eternity, and my angel friend is gone and everyone else is dead and no one fucking knows or cares or will ever mourn - _

Is that sound coming from him? Yes, he's laughing, half-hysterically, and the weird silence around says that he's making a scene, but _fuck _these people, these people he saved, these people Sammy saved, they _owe _him and can fucking _take_ the awkward.

"Sir? Are you okay?"

And he's ready to shout _No, you fucking idiot, do I look like I'm shitting sunshine, _except it's a _kid, _a little boy with a mop of mussed brown hair, a little kid with big brown puppy eyes and a long face and a sincere, worried voice, and _fuck..._

Dean turns and leaves without answering.

He drives again, no destination is mind, staring at the trees and the sky and passing ponds, at pedestrians laughing on the sidewalks and eating ice-cream. He watches kites flying and bicyclers wheeling and thinks, _Sammy saved this, Sammy did this, this world is his goddamn legacy, _trying to make everything better. It doesn't.

Call him freaking selfish, _fine, _but this was _not _worth Sammy.

But he keeps driving, because how can he stop? What would _happen _if he stops? A half-superstitious fear moves him on, and he watches, and watches, and maybe weeps a little, but no one needs to know about that.

He drives. The moon is full and low and pale, and bats flicker in and out of its light while cars zoom by quietly in the dusk.

He drives. The sun rises over fields of waving corn and horses graze in the distance. Children trudge to school and people walk to work, grumbling and smiling and alive.

He drives. Sleek city walls climb around him, and the world is a loud, blaring, vibrant mess, strong and oblivious and innocent.

He drives. A pair of parents leave a hospital with their newborn baby, smiling and hugging each other, and others wheel in and out behind them.

He drives. Lovers kiss on a bench and smile at the moon and walk off hand-in-hand as teens laugh and wrestle with innocent delight.

He drives. And none of it means anything.

The car stops.

Dean is momentarily confused, because where is he? And then he looks up, and he sees Lisa's house. And he knows, distantly, that _he _drove here, but it's like a message from Sammy, a dying wish, _live, go on, heal, apple-pie life..._

For Sam, he can try.

Dean goes up to the house, and he knocks.


End file.
